Page 151 of Until Joy

All this time, I'd been terrified of his disappointment, and he'd already figured out the truth.

“I should have called sooner.”

“Yes, you should have. But you're calling now, and that's what matters.”

I could hear him moving around, probably pacing his study the way he always did when he was thinking through a problem.

“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught me off guard. “What?”

“A woman. Are you dating anyone?”

“Yeah, actually. Her name's Joy.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. By the time I was your age, you were seven years old. Tell me about her.”

And just like that, we were talking. Really talking. I told him about Joy, about Miss Laverne. Fuck, I even told him about the boom. He laughed his ass off. He told me about retirement, about a small house he’d bought in Florida that he went to in the winters, and a boat that he got that he named after Mom.

“I love you, son,” he said finally. “I should have said that more when you were growing up.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

“When can I meet this woman of yours?”

I glanced toward the bedroom, where Joy was probably already asleep. “Soon. She'd like you.”

“If she can put up with your stubborn ass, I already like her.”

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in years. “She's got plenty of practice dealing with difficult men.”

“Smart woman. You better not screw this up.”

“I'm trying not to.”

“Good. Now tell me more about Murfreesboro. I’ve got to know the lay of the land before I come out for a visit.”

“Would you just pick something?” I asked Joy.

I winced. I hadn’t meant for those words to come out of my mouth.

We'd been walking through this maze of overpriced couches and chairs for two hours, and Joy was no closer to making a decision than when we'd started five hours ago at the first furniture store. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled that she had so much energy after all she’d been through, but this? Seriously, now I wanted to be shot.

“This is only the third store,” Joy said cheerfully, running her hand over the arm of yet another sectional sofa. “And this one's nice. Good fabric, solid construction.”

“It's beige.”

“Oatmeal.”

“It’s not leather.”

She arched her eyebrow at me. We’d been having this same conversation for hours.

I stared at the couch that looked exactly like every other couch we'd examined today. Neutral colors. Plush cushions. The kind of furniture that screamed suburban family life and weekend trips to Home Depot.

“I thought you had opinions about this stuff,” I muttered.

“I do. I have very strong opinions about not buying the first thing we see.”